Home Is Where the Heart Is
by and she knew love
Summary: They remember that one day a year ago at the airport where they let a thousand unspoken words fall through the cracks. Well, they aren't leaving anything unsaid this time. A take on their reunion and how I hope but know it won't go. B&B all the wa


**A little digression from my Cold Case story. I've loved Bones forever, and this idea just popped up randomly. I know I'm late with jumping on the season 5 finale bandwagon, but seeing as season 6 is starting soon, it's as good a time as any to upload this. **

**A LONG one-shot. Apparently, my muse can't take short ones. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Bones. But you didn't need to be told that. **

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**Home Is Where the Heart Is**

The mall. The reflecting pool. The coffee stand.

Three hundred sixty-five days later. It might as well have been an eternity.

He arrives first. It definitely isn't the way he imagined it. In his mind, it's always Bones who arrives first and sits on the bench, waiting for him. But the bench is empty, so he takes a seat and waits.

And waits.

Thirty minutes tick by with at an agonizing speed. He tries to keep his leg from bouncing nervously and gives up. He loosens his tie for a moment before tightening it again. He wants to look perfect, the way he knows she will. But damn, is it hot. With a sigh, he loosens the tie again, just for something to do.

He wonders what he'll say to her. It's stupid, because he spent the entirety of the last year thinking of what he'd say, and now that the moment is almost here, he still doesn't have a clue. He'll start with _hello._ Or maybe _hey._ Or should he just crush her into a hug? God knows he wants to. Does she? Maybe she'll start first. But wouldn't it be better if he did?

He sighs. This is why he never gets anywhere in planning out their conversation. But then again, his plans never seem to work when she's around anyway. He thinks something out to the very last detail and then she comes along and shoots it all to hell. It's all improvisation around Bones, all preventative measures and then damage control when everything's over. She's unpredictable, which throws him off. But it's what he loves about her.

He sighs again. Afghanistan was supposed to give him perspective, help him get past his feelings for Bones and move on. Move way, way on, so far on he wouldn't even be able to look back to where he started. But it hasn't happened. He's standing exactly where he'd stood a year earlier. As in love with Bones as ever.

And he hates it. He hates being in love with her. It's frustrating and irritating and painful. But he knows now that there's no way in hell you just _stop_ being in love with someone. And there is no moving on from someone like Bones.

He's resigned to it. He's decided that yes, he has feelings for Bones and yes, it's likely he'll never stop having feelings for her. But he's gone out on a limb before, gambled for her before, and that whole thing ended in disaster. He's smarter now. Warier. He won't make that same mistake again. He knows that if anything's going to happen between him and Bones, it'll be her move. Until then…well, he can deal with being her friend. Just her friend.

His eyes have been flicking aimlessly through the crowd so long now that they skip right over her. Belatedly, his mind makes the connection between the woman standing twenty feet in front of him and Bones, and his eyes shoot right back to her, widening.

God, she's beautiful. He wonders if he's ever really appreciated that before. Well, after three hundred sixty-five days of sandy dunes, pummeling winds that blow grit in your teeth, and sweaty butt-ugly soldiers, he's definitely appreciating her now.

She looks better than she did that day long ago in the airport, when they'd clasped hands and let a thousand unspoken words fall through the cracks. There are bags under her eyes, and she looks exhausted, but there's a spark in her eyes. He wonders if it had been there before and decides that it hadn't. It's a new spark, a spark of success and happiness. She must have had some adventure there in Mapupu, discovering some evolutionary something or other to completely revolutionize blah blah blah. He doesn't care. If it makes her eyes gleam like that, it's enough.

Excitement twists up his gut, leaving him slightly breathless. His fingers nervously tapping on his pants leg, he rises, putting on a wide smile. She doesn't spot him yet, so he gives a little wave and shouts, "Bones!"

It sounds amazing, her name (his name for her) rolling off his tongue. Sure, he'd whispered her name in those turbulent desert nights, like just saying it would keep him (and her) safe, but it isn't the same.

She turns toward him, and her entire face lights up like a Christmas tree. It's one of the most beautiful things he's ever seen. His heart swells.

"Bones," he says again as she hurries toward him. Now that she's actually there, he wonders what the hell he's supposed to say. _Hello_ and _hey_ seem way too inadequate. _How have you been_ can never encompass everything that's happened. _What d'you know, I still love you_ will probably—definitely—end in tears and disaster.

He decides on a handshake. Nice and professional. As she gets within three steps of him, he sticks out a hand and opens his mouth.

She doesn't even look at his outstretched fingers. There's a steely look of determination in her eyes, and he falters, wondering incredulously whether she's going to hit him. He hasn't done anything to deserve that, has he? He was even the one here first, for goodness sake! He's the one who's waited for the past hour!

She throws out her arms, and he flinches backwards, one eye closing. But she doesn't hit him. Nothing even close to that. She wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his chest.

He can't believe it. Bones—Doctor Temperance Brennan with forty-foot walls around her and an aversion to physical contact—is _hugging _him? And he didn't even start it?

She must have felt him stiffen against her touch and draws back. Her eyes harden but not quickly enough to hide the hurt.

"Booth," she says, smiling guardedly. "It's good to see you."

Damn it, three seconds into their reunion and she's already got her walls sky-high. Hoping to thaw out her smile, he asks, "How was Mapupu?"

Her smile widens. "I won't correct you."

He raises an eyebrow. "That's a first. Why not?"

"You mispronounce it deliberately to provoke a reaction out of me," she replies matter-of-factly.

"And when did you figure that out?" he teases, marveling at how easy it is to talk to her. Like the past year had never happened at all.

"Well, a couple of times after you first said it," she replies, straight-faced.

Well. Apparently three hundred sixty-five days haven't been enough to teach Bones the meaning of sarcasm. Not that he'd expected any different.

He smiles affectionately at her. "So how've you been, Bones?"

"I've been well," she answers. "Do you want a coffee?"

She gestures to the nearby coffee cart, and he nods. They walk over, arms almost touching, and order two cups of steaming coffee. He pulls out his wallet and pays for them both before she can protest. Accepting their drinks, they slowly walk along the way, enjoying the familiar sights and the familiar company.

Eventually, she asks, "How have you been?"

"Well enough," he says, hoping she can't hear the flatness in his voice. Hoping she won't ask any further.

But her eyes sharpen, and he knows she's seen through him. Either she's honed her observational skills or she just knows him better than he thinks she does. Either way, she doesn't let it go. When has Bones ever let something go?

"You're lying," she says. There isn't any anger in her voice, just matter-of-factness. It's a purely scientific observation, as she'd say.

He stubbornly keeps his gaze straight ahead, his voice neutral. "What? What makes you think that?"

"Booth," she says, "you were the one who taught me to read people. I think I've gotten pretty good at knowing when someone's lying."

"Really?" he asks, hoping to lead her away from the original topic. "How can you tell I'm lying?"

"You're avoiding my eyes," she points out. "I've learned the significance of eye contact."

Damn. She's gotten good. Not answering, he sips his coffee to avoid talking. She sends him a curious look, but he ignores it pointedly. He doesn't want to talk about Afghanistan—not now, not ever. War and fighting aren't things a man should ever have to talk about to the people he loves.

"What happened?" she asks quietly. "You weren't—you weren't hurt?"

_Yes,_ he thinks, envisioning the bandage he has on his ribs and remembering the time he sprained his ankle and limped around the compound for weeks. But those wounds have healed or will soon. It's the hurts of the heart he carries around now, scars she can't and never will see. But he doesn't tell her this. With any luck, he'll never have to tell her any of it.

"No," he lies. "I'm fine." And he is—physically.

She doesn't believe him, but she seems to understand his reluctance to talk about it. Instead of pressing the point, she drinks from her coffee and clears her throat. "Do you want to hear about my work in Maluku?"

He nods. "Sure." Anything other than the year he had is fine.

She launches into an explanation on what they found in Maluku and what evolutionary significance their discoveries carry. She details how they set up their dig and how every morning they would walk the mile to the site to brush up on new finds and help excavate old ones. He listens without listening, like he always does when she starts talking like she's swallowed a dictionary. That spark in her eyes grows brighter, and he marvels at the change it makes in her face. She seems so…alive. The year-long break from murders has been good to her.

Eventually, her monologue slows, and she glances over at him in amusement. "You haven't been listening to me."

"Yes, I have," he protests. "I've heard every word. Just don't expect me to repeat it to you because I doubt I'd be able to pronounce half of the words you used."

She laughs and finishes with, "It was a productive year. But I'm glad to be back."

"So am I," he says. The year has been three hundred sixty-five days too long. With a smile, he adds, "I missed you."

She glances at him shyly, and he stares at her, startled. Bones, _shy?_ What happened to her halfway around the world?

She opens her mouth and hesitates. Takes a sip of her coffee. Glances around a little. Then, after a couple of false starts, she mutters, "I missed you too."

He can't believe his ears. "What?"

"I'm sure you heard me," Bones says, looking embarrassed. But for his benefit, she repeats, "I missed you too."

She _missed_ him? He isn't surprised, not really. They'd spent five years together; it was impossible for her not to miss him. But she _admitted_ to missing him? That's totally new, totally mind-boggling. He stares at her.

She sees his disbelief and says defensively, "What?"

"You said you missed me," he informs her slowly. "You'd never say that."

She smiles hesitantly. "I've been…thinking a lot lately."

Instantly, a wild surge of hope runs through him, and just as quickly, he stifles it. She's been thinking. So what? It doesn't mean anything, as much as he wishes it does.

"About what?" he prompts, hoping he doesn't sound too interested.

"A lot of things," she replies, looking down at the coffee cup in her hands. "Specifically, more personal things, things I don't usually think about."

His heart thumps a steady cadence against his ribs. "Like what?"

She glances at him, and just like that, he can see the courage leaking out of her. She opens her mouth and says, "Just personal things."

They both know that isn't what she meant to say, but Booth doesn't push her. He knows pushing Bones is like slamming into a concrete slab and trying to shove it over. It doesn't mean he's not disappointed though.

Instead, he says, "I've been thinking too. About a lot of things. Afghanistan's a boring place. We sat around a lot. It gave me time to think."

"About what?" she parrots him.

He shrugs. "Things." If she can be ambiguous, he can too.

She looks at him once, takes a sip of her coffee, and glances at him again. He can see a question in her eyes, but she's hesitating to ask it. Impatiently, he says, "Spit it out, Bones."

She stares at him, that familiar, uncomprehending look on her face. "Spit what out?"

Oh yeah. He's almost forgotten how literal she is. With a smile, he rewords, "Ask me what you're thinking."

"How do you know I'm thinking something?"

"I'm the one who taught you to read people," he reminds her. "Ask me."

She sips her coffee and looks at the cup. "Are you…seeing anyone?"

_That's_ what's on her mind? If he's _dating_ anyone? He laughs, and she shoots him a questioning look, followed by an irritated one.

"Was my question humorous?" she asks stiffly, not meeting his eyes.

He shakes his head. "No, it's not that. It's just that…well, there aren't that many dating opportunities in Afghanistan."

Her annoyance melts away. "Oh. So…no?"

"No," he clarifies. He hadn't had any time for romance in a warzone like that, and even if he had…well, he's already in love, and that isn't changing as far as he's concerned.

And then a thought hits him: what if _she's_ found a guy? Jealousy flares in his gut, the old jealousy he's felt practically since the day he laid eyes on her.

"So," he says casually (at least, he hopes he sounds casual), "you?"

"Me what?" she asks.

"Do you like anyone?"

She hesitates, and he groans inwardly. Damn it. One year away, and she's gone off and found the perfect guy, hasn't she? He's probably got a symmetrical facial structure, a prominent zygomatic arch, and two dozen degrees. Not to mention the fact that he can probably understand every word that comes out of her mouth. Great. Just great.

"So who is he?" Booth asks, forcing levity in his voice.

"Who?" Bones asks, sounding perfectly confused.

He sighs. "The guy. The one you're dating?"

"Who says I'm dating anyone?"

"You hesitated when I asked you if you liked anyone. That means you do, doesn't it?"

Frowning, she protests, "I could have just been taking a breath."

"But you weren't."

Her silence confirms it; she's definitely with someone. He probably shouldn't press her because the jealousy is already reaching an uncomfortable point, but he can't help it.

"So, what's he like?"

She shrugs noncommittally. "He's…good."

Good. A word that can mean a thousand different things. He wonders just how _good_ this guy is.

"Like what?" he prompts. "Details, Bones, come on."

She frowns. "Why? I don't think you want to talk about a man I like. I'd think you'd want to talk about something else."

Well, what can he say? He's a sucker for punishment. Aloud, he says, "I just want to know. What, I can't know the kind of guy my partner likes?"

"Ex-partner," she corrects.

"You'll always be my partner, Bones." He means it. In so many ways beyond a work partnership, he means it.

She doesn't correct him or remind him that it is impossible for something to _always_ be something, just like _forever_ is an implausible concept. Instead, she just shrugs and says, "He's good."

"He's got a nice zygo-whatsit structure?"

That gets a smile out of her. "Yes, a good zygomatic structure."

"And he's got a nice symmetrical face?" he teases.

Her smile widens. "Yes, he does. In more common terms, he's quite…hot."

The word _hot_ coming out of Bones's mouth in association with a guy stops him dead in his tracks. He can't hide the flash of hurt that flits across his face. In five years of partnership, all he's gotten out of Bones is 'yes, Booth, you're very symmetrical' and 'your facial structure is pleasing.' And now, in just a year, this guy has gotten Bones to say he's _hot?_ He can't quite stamp out the jealousy. He isn't sure he even wants to.

"Oh," he says, a bit stiffly. "That's nice."

This time, his emotion seems to escape her. A thoughtful expression on her face, she nods slowly. Slowing his pace to match hers, he tries to study her face, but it's hopeless; she's got those walls up again, and he knows he'll never get past them by forcing her. So, with a sigh, he just follows her as she walks in silence, sipping what's left of her coffee.

Finally, he tries for a more neutral topic. "So, have you heard from Angela and Hodgins?"

Smiling, Bones nods. "They called me the day I landed back in D.C."

"They're back?" Booth asks. "How was Paris?"

She gives him a quizzical look. "You didn't hear from them in Afghanistan?"

Sure he did. Little emails here and there, talking on the phone once. He doesn't tell her that he limited his contact with everyone else to save up time for her.

"No," he says, to prompt her. "So, how was it?"

"They got back a couple of months ago. They sounded happy on the phone."

"Are they back at the Jeffersonian?" Booth asks.

Bones nods. "Cam rehired them."

"And no one replaced them while they were gone?" Booth asks skeptically.

"The entomologist Cam hired to replace Hodgins quit," Bones explains. "Difficult work hours. The sketch artist wasn't good enough. Cam decided she wanted Angela back."

If only the rest of them can settle back that easily. Booth always wonders—hopes—that they can just go back to the Jeffersonian and everything will be the way it was. Hodgins and the interns will make a mess, Angela will gag over remains, Cam will supervise and scold, he'll bring in case after case, and Bones will…well, search her bones for clues. And in the middle of that, Sweets will butt his head in unnecessarily and come up with psychological observations that are undoubtedly annoying but somehow turn out to be true in the end. He wants that to be reality so badly he can almost taste it. But he knows it won't be that easy.

He hesitates before asking, "And you, Bones? Are you going back to the Jeffersonian?"

If she doesn't, he doesn't know what he'll do. Join back up with the FBI? Take his old job? The luster of that life seems duller when he thinks of taking cases without Bones to back him up. But what else can he do?

Thankfully, Bones nods. "I'll talk to Cam. If she can take another forensic anthropologist at the Jeffersonian, I'll come back."

"And you'll keep working with me?" He hopes he doesn't sound too desperate.

She doesn't notice him clinging on to her words. "Of course, Booth. Who else would I work with?" She finishes up her coffee, tosses it in a nearby trash can, and sighs. "It was a good year. I enjoyed working at a site again. But I missed our work at the Jeffersonian. I thought I'd had enough of dealing with murders, but I seem to be…accustomed to it now. I can't think of doing anything else."

Relief flushes through him, and he relaxes shoulders he doesn't even remember tensing. Good. He feels exactly the same way. She doesn't know how much her words have put him at ease.

"Good," he says simply, smiling. Maybe settling back won't be so hard after all.

"Do you want to go somewhere?" Bones asks suddenly.

He pauses. "Go somewhere?"

"Well, I'm sure you don't want to wander around the mall all day."

He wouldn't mind, as long as she wandered with him. But an idea strikes him, and he grins. "You want to drop in on the Jeffersonian?"

An answering sparkle lights up her eyes. "A surprise visit?"

"Exactly."

She nods, her smile the most genuine one he's seen so far. "Let's go. Do you have a car?"

Booth shakes his head. "Nah, I took a taxi." He wishes he had the SUV back, even for memories' sake, but it was a government vehicle. Unless he joins up with the FBI again, he'll have to say goodbye to his memory-ridden black truck.

"Oh. That's okay, I brought my car." She fishes the keys out of her back pocket, and Booth reaches over smoothly, snatching them from her hand.

"Hey!" she protests, her brow furrowing.

"I drive," he says smugly.

"It's my car," she argues.

"Hey, Bones," he reminds her, "I always drive."

"Your demand to drive is—"

"An alpha male tendency?" he teases. "Yeah, it is. Doesn't change the fact I'm driving though."

She grumbles but leads him to her car all the same. She shoots him a mutinous glare as he slides into the driver's seat, and he chuckles quietly. Some things will never change.

Before long, they pull up to the familiar Jeffersonian building. Booth is struck with a wave of nostalgia, and he sighs, wondering if they'll ever get those days back. Lazy days spent in Bones's office, late nights spent poring over case files, frantic days trying to find a vital clue to a case…he hopes those days aren't gone.

Bones seems to be thinking along the same lines. "I wonder what it's going to be like. The future, I mean."

_So do I, Bones_, he thinks, getting out of the car. _So do I._

They're stopped at the first security pass terminal. After a moment, Bones digs her old security pass out of her pocket (she carries that around?) and tries it. To their surprise, the scanner beeps pleasantly and admits them.

"That's a lapse in security if I ever saw one," Booth comments, an eyebrow raised.

"I'll tell Cam," Bones replies. They walk slowly, letting their eyes wander across the familiar hallways, the familiar sights. Almost nothing has changed about the place; Booth even spots a dozen people he recognizes passing them in the halls. A few stop in surprise and greet the two of them, and Booth waves back with a smile.

They aren't back to their jobs. He isn't coming here to bring the team a case. But damn, is it good to be back.

They make their way to the forensic anthropology wing, and Booth spots the forensic platform. It hasn't changed at all, except for the people bustling around on it. In that case, it's changed unrecognizably.

They both pause in the doorway, eyes roaming over what had once been their domain. Well, _her_ domain and his playground of memories. Nothing like the furniture or desk positions has changed, but the atmosphere is completely different. Stiffer. More formal. No longer a place he can just bring Thai in and plop down with his favorite squints.

Someone stops dead in his tracks just in front of them. "Doctor Brennan?"

Booth looks at him and breaks into a smile. "Hey, look, Bones, it's Wendall." One of the more normal squints of Bones's intern team.

Bones smiles too, and she seems almost relieved to see a familiar face. "Wendall. Do you work here?"

Her old intern comes closer, his smile widening as he gets over his surprise. "Yeah, I'm still an intern here. Working on becoming full-time. What—what are you doing here, Doctor Brennan? I thought you were heading up a project."

Bones nods. "I was, but I finished my year contract. I just thought I'd stop by to see the Jeffersonian with Booth."

"Hey, Booth," Wendall says, shaking his hand. "It's good to see you, man."

"It's good to be back," Booth replies, grinning. "So, any of the other squints still here?"

Wendall nods. "Most of the interns are the same. There're a couple of new ones, though." His eyes light up, and he adds, "Angela and Doctor Hodgins are here now. You want me to tell them you're here?"

Booth shakes his head before Bones can answer. "Nah. We're trying to surprise them."

Wendall grins and nods. "Sure thing. Listen, I've got to get back to work, but we should catch up later, okay?"

Nodding, they watch as he hurries away, files in hand.

"Hasn't changed a bit, that kid," Booth says fondly.

"He's cut his hair," Bones disagrees, "and he's lost some weight."

"That isn't what I mean," Booth answers, grinning. "Come on, let's go find Angela."

They wander along the edge of the room toward Angela's office. Booth figures she's probably there, fiddling with her computer or something, and what do you know, he's right. There she is, sitting in her chair…in Hodgins's lap…giving him a kiss…a _hot_ kiss…

"Oh," Bones says quietly, unruffled.

Booth stares for a moment, slack-jawed, before grabbing Bones's arm. "Wow…okay, wow…"

He tries to drag Bones back out, but of course, she digs in her heels and finds no problem with breaking into this…_intimate_…moment with inane hellos.

"Hi, Angela," she calls. "It's Brennan."

Angela shrieks, and Hodgins jumps. The chair tips backwards, sprawling both of them on the floor. Booth just stares, pretty sure his face is red. All of them turn simultaneously to stare at Brennan.

Oh, Bones. She's the only one who could interrupt a moment like _that_ and look completely innocent.

"What?" she says obliviously, noticing their shocked looks.

Booth coughs, distracting Bones for long enough to let Angela adjust her shirt and Hodgins to tuck his back into his pants. Both of them scramble to their feet, embarrassed flushes crossing their faces.

"Hey, Bren," Angela says, clearing her throat. To her credit, she sounds almost normal. "What're you doing here?"

"Booth thought it would be a good idea to visit the Jeffersonian," Bones explains. "It's good to see you again." She crosses the distance and envelops Angela into a hug.

All of them stare. _Again?_ Booth thinks incredulously. Bones has initiated hugs not once, but _twice?_ What's going on?

Only Bones doesn't seem to notice that she's done something out of character. She draws back with a full smile and asks, "How was Paris?"

"Paris?" Angela stammers. "Paris was good. How were your islands?"

"Informative," Bones replies. "Booth's back too," she adds, turning to look at him.

Angela's smile loses its discomfort as she recovers from the surprise of being broken in on by her best friend. "Booth!"

He catches her in his arms and grins happily. "Hey, Angela. How's it going?"

"Great! Hodgins and I have a lot to tell you guys."

"I bet," he answers. She looks good; both of them do. Being married looks like it's been good for them. They're genuinely happy, and so is Bones. He wonders if he's the only one who regrets leaving.

They stay and chat for another hour, catching up on what they've missed. It's so easy, the camaraderie. It hasn't changed at all. Angela's still wry and wild, Hodgins plotting and scheming, and Bones analytical and oblivious. Has he changed? He doesn't think so. He _hopes_ he hasn't. But he knows, deep inside, that he has. Being back in the warzone has changed him. He just hopes it's for the better.

Eventually, Cam stumbles in on them, and another round of happy reunions goes around. Booth greets her enthusiastically, but one look in her eyes, and he knows she can tell he's different. She's known him too long to miss that slightly distant look in his eyes, and she frowns. He shakes his head silently to tell her that he doesn't want to talk about it, and again, she knows him well enough to know not to push. But she keeps a worried eye on him all the same.

After another hour of laughter in which he almost forgets about the past year ever happening, they all start to wind down. Sweets, Cam tells them, is off on assignment in the New York office and won't be back for another week. They all laugh and crack the usual twelve-year-old jokes, but Booth kind of wishes the psychologist was in town. Maybe…maybe Sweets could tell him how to manage the nightmares. He's had them before, when he was a Ranger in the army, and they're not as bad now, but some nights, he can't sleep. Afghanistan haunts him in the same way Kosovo and the Gulf War did, even if he didn't do the heavy-lifting this time.

After a while, Cam tells them to call it quits for the night. Angela and Hodgins are obviously too ready to hit the sack. Booth's still jet lagged from his flight, so he decides to call it a night too. Saying goodbye to them, he walks with Bones for the doors.

"It's different," Bones remarks. "The Jeffersonian."

"It is," he agrees. It isn't a bad different; it's just not the place they remember. He shoves his hands into his pockets as they walk in silence.

They reach the doors too soon. The night air is cold and familiar. After endless nights in the desert, Booth is used to the biting cold, but Bones, by her shivering, obviously isn't. He takes off his jacket and hands it to her.

"Alpha male tendencies," she says, taking it.

"Chivalry," he answers, smiling.

"I'm not tired yet," Bones tells him, and he eyes her skeptically. She's got obvious circles darkening her eyes, and she's practically sagging with exhaustion.

"You're practically dead on your feet," he points out.

"I don't understand," she replies automatically, so quickly that he knows she's being deliberately obtuse.

He grins. "Let me take you home."

"You don't have a car," she reminds him.

"I'll drive you and take a taxi home," he says.

She doesn't argue, and he wonders at that. The normal Bones would assert her independence by insisting to drive herself. The normal Bones would somehow logic him into agreeing. But this Bones nods silently and lets him take the driver's seat. He realizes for the first time that she's changed too; he just doesn't know how.

They arrive at her apartment and exit the car silently. Without speaking, they climb the steps to her home and stop outside her door. He waits as she unlocks the door, watching her. God, she's beautiful, even more so in the pale moonlight. A year hasn't changed that at all; he doubts anything could. This guy—whoever he is—who's caught her eye is one lucky bastard.

She turns in the doorway, playing with her keys in one hand. "It's still early."

He doesn't know what she's getting at. "So?"

"So do you want to come in, maybe?"

Since when has Bones invited him in? He's usually the one who has to push her boundaries; he isn't used to having her push them herself. But if she's asking, he sure as hell won't deny her—this or anything.

With a smile, he nods. "Sure." He follows her inside and waits with his hands in his pockets as she flicks on the lights. The place looks exactly the same. Maybe a little dusty, but hey, she hasn't been here in a year. It looks remarkably clean for a place that's been left alone for that long.

"So, Bones," he says easily, "what do you want to—"

His eyes land on the couch, and he freezes. Behind him, he hears Bones turn at his abrupt silence, her confusion palpable.

"Booth?"

He finds his voice. "You, uh…you expecting anyone, Bones?"

Her footsteps pad up behind him. "No."

He glances at her, and she looks at him, a question in her eyes. By way of answer, he directs his eyes silently to the couch.

Two booted feet stick out from the edge of the couch. The rest of the man is hidden from sight, but if Bones isn't expecting him, it doesn't matter who he is. All that matters is he's a intruder, which means he's also a danger.

A danger to her.

His protective instincts kick in. Backing up, he throws out an arm to bring Bones closer to him and toward the door. He almost tells her to go to the bedroom before thinking better of it; if someone's on her couch, there's a chance someone else is in her bed, waiting for her. He has no idea why someone would break into her house to crash on her couch, but he doesn't care. All that matters is that she's safe.

"Bones," he says lowly, eyes on the booted feet, "stay behind me."

As expected, she whispers back, "I can take care of myself, Booth."

He ignores her, making sure she stays put. Then, with quiet, wary steps, he creeps over to the couch.

The man lying there is snoring, a magazine spread across his face. He doesn't look familiar, but then again, Booth can't see his face. But if he's asleep, he can't be too much of a danger, can he?

Cautiously, Booth reaches out to snatch the magazine off the man's face, but the instant he does, the intruder flies up off the couch and socks Booth a good one in the jaw. His head snaps back, and survival instincts kick in. He throws up a hand to block the next blow and counters with his own, straight across the face of his attacker. The man groans and stumbles back, but Booth doesn't relent. His pulse thunders in his ears, and he remembers what he heard in training, what he'd taught.

_The only good enemy is a dead one._

He isn't safe until his enemy stops breathing. It's been ingrained into him just as surely as it's been ingrained into the soldiers he trained.

He snaps his arm out a second time, catching the assailant in the gut. The man grunts and goes down, and Booth's inner soldier instantly analyzes the best way to end the threat. He leans forward and catches the enemy in a stranglehold, knowing how easy it will be to snap the man's neck once he gets a proper hold.

_Finish the threat as quickly as possible._

He grunts as the man drives an elbow into his ribs, hitting the wound that hasn't quiet healed yet. Pain flashes through him, and his hold loosens as he sucks in a pained breath. It's enough for the man to break his hold and deal him a ringing blow to the head.

_Ignore the pain. _

Never, ever let pain get the best of you. He brushes it away and rushes forward again, too quickly for the other man to defend himself. Basic Combat Training. He taught all that and more. He knows it all to his bones. He easily blocks the next couple of blows and then goes in for the kill, slamming his forearm against the enemy's throat.

Neutralize the threat, the terrorist, the damned enemy—

"_Booth!"_

The cry, so full of shock and horror, cuts through his soldier's mind to the man inside. All the training is blown away, and he freezes, half a second away from crushing the attacker's windpipe.

Bones's voice. Bones's cry.

He isn't—he isn't in Afghanistan. He isn't training. He isn't being attacked by a terrorist.

Horror washes through him.

He's in Bones's apartment. He's attacked the man on the couch. He's shown her the ugly, soldier side of him, the side no one should ever have to see.

Damn it all to hell.

His breath ragged, he releases the man and staggers back, staring at his hands. His brutal, death-bringing hands that almost killed a man, right here, right in front of Bones. He can almost see the blood coating his fingers. Oh God…

This happened before, when he came back from war the first time. This time though…he'd thought he'd be able to control himself this time. He thought he'd be able to _stop_ it, damn it.

"Booth?"

Bones again. No longer frightened, just shocked. He turns to see her stepping toward him, one arm reaching for him, her brow furrowed and confused.

He steps back away from her, unable to stop the horror from flashing across his face. He lost it. Just completely lost it. In front of _Bones._

"Booth?" she repeats, sounding more concerned than stunned this time. She steps toward him again, and again, he moves back. He can't let her get near him, not when he's like this. Not when he's…_dangerous._

He backs away slowly, afraid of moving too quickly. His back hits the door, and he yanks it open before practically throwing himself out of the room and away from _her._

_Don't follow me, Bones,_ he prays fervently. _Not when I'm like this. Not like this._

He flies down the steps of the apartment building and out the door into the cold night. He doesn't stop there, just keeps going on the sidewalk, putting distance between himself and her. He's in shock. He can't believe he lost it so quickly, in front of the person he loves most in this world. His hands are shaking from horror and adrenaline. He can't stop trembling.

He doesn't dare call a taxi. There's no knowing what could trigger another flashback, another attack. He just keeps going, keeping up his brisk pace. He ducks into several side streets just in case Bones tries to follow him; he wouldn't put it past her. Luckily, he seems to have lost her, if she was even following him in the first place. Maybe he's completely spooked her. Maybe she's so terrified she won't ever talk to him again.

Maybe it's better that way.

He thinks bitterly of the months he spent in Afghanistan and curses the day he ever agreed to go back into a warzone. Give him perspective, give him time…sure, Afghanistan gave him all that, all that and more. Nightmares, waking up soaking in sweat, all that psychological trauma crap Sweets would preach. He's not the same, is he? He doesn't know if he'll ever be the same again.

Eventually, he realizes he's bleeding. The warmth has soaked through his white dress shirt underneath the suit jacket, staining his tie and pretty much ruining his suit. It's the wound that hadn't quite healed on his ribs. It must have torn anew when the attacker rammed his elbow into Booth's ribs.

He can't leave it bleeding. Even in his numb state, he knows that much. He's got to get new bandages, fix it up before he gets light-headed.

Where to go?

_Home._ Home to his apartment. It's a long walk, but he doesn't know what else to do. So he starts walking. The cold air eventually calms him down enough for him to realize that he's left Bones alone in her apartment—with the intruder.

He freezes in sudden fear. He couldn't have been that stupid. No way.

Anger rushes through him, warming him—anger at himself. How could he have been so goddamn _stupid?_

He turns automatically to head back to Bones's apartment. Damn his flashbacks and damn his bleeding. If Bones isn't okay, he doesn't give a crap about anything else.

But…but what if he loses it again? What if he _hurts_ her this time?

The thought stops him dead in his tracks. He can't take it. He can't even take the _idea_ of hurting her. He's dangerous, out of control. He can't risk it.

But he needs to know she's okay. Hurriedly, with numb fingers, he digs his phone out of his pocket and dials her number. Even a year later, he hasn't forgotten it. Anxiously, he holds the phone to his ear and waits. What if she doesn't pick up? What if she's lying there in her apartment in a pool of blood because he's jogged a mile away out of stupid, stupid fear?

He shuts the thoughts away brutally, trying to calm the pounding of his heart. She's okay. Of course she is. Bones can take care of herself.

He mutters a quick prayer under his breath, praying that she's okay and that she'll pick up and allay his fears. He prays right up until the moment she says, "Hello?"

"Bones," he says breathlessly, relief making his knees weak. "Thank God."

"Booth." Her voice is laden with worry. "Where are you?"

He shakes his head. "Never mind. Are you okay? What happened? Where's the guy who broke into your house? Do you need help? Are you hurt?"

"Booth, stop," she orders in that voice that brooks no argument. "I'm fine. It was my father. He came to surprise me."

Oh God. Her father. He'd _attacked_ her father and nearly _killed_ him. It can't get any worse than this.

"Oh," he says faintly. "Oh." Shocked.

"Booth," she says sharply, "tell me where you are. You're—you're not okay. I'm coming to get you."

"No, you're not," he says, more strongly. "You're going to stay home and sleep." _You aren't getting anywhere near me. _

"Booth, you need help!" Bones protests hotly. "I don't know what's wrong with you, but you don't just run out of my apartment like that if you're _fine._ I can help. Let me help."

_I'm dangerous,_ he wants to tell her. _I've been getting nightmares, and I get flashbacks, and I get out of control. I can't risk it._

But he doesn't tell her any of that. He only says, "I'm fine, Bones. Talk to you later," and shuts the phone. In an instant, it's ringing again, but he ignores it. Hunching his shoulders against the cold, he makes his way home, wincing as the cut on his ribs tears a little more at his brisk pace. _Just a little further,_ he thinks.

Finally, the building looms in sight. It's dark now, and the moon isn't out. He makes it up the stairs to his apartment and unlocks the door. Inside, it's musty and dusty. His place isn't nearly as well-kept as Bones's, but it's home. Not bothering to flick on the lights, he stumbles into the bathroom and fumbles for a moment for bandages in the cabinet. Only when he's found the gauze and antiseptic things does he turn on the lights. He strips off the suit jacket and the tie. Painfully, he lifts his shirt and peels off the soaked bandage.

It looks worse in the pale light. A shallow but painful cut slices across his ribs on the left. It's red with blood, and the stitches are torn. Damn, Max has clearly done a number on him.

Stiffly, he takes off his shirt and uses it to sop up the rest of the blood. The wound looks like it isn't bleeding much anymore, so he carefully washes it, rinsing away the blood. It goes down the drain, staining the water sickeningly red. With a grimace, he reaches for the fresh bandages.

And someone knocks on the door. He freezes, wondering wildly who's outside his door at this time of night. Of course, he only comes up with one name—Bones.

Damn it, what's she doing here? He _told _her to stay away!

_Right, _he sneers at himself, _and when has Bones ever done anything you told her to? _

He stays right where he is, breathing shallowly, hoping the silence will drive her away.

No such luck. She just pounds on his door again and starts talking.

"Booth! It's Bones! Booth, open up! I know you're in there!"

How the hell does she know that? He could be anywhere else in the world for all she knows.

She obviously guesses his thoughts. "A neighbor saw you go in," she explains, and he curses. Well, fine, a neighbor saw him go in. It doesn't mean he's going to open the door for her.

"If you don't open the door," Bones says emphatically, "I'll have my father pick the lock."

Damn it all to hell! Is there nowhere he can hide?

He resolves to stay silent. If she thinks he's asleep or something, she won't burst in, will she?

Then again, when has something so little as _sleep_ stopped her?

He hears the telltale sounds of someone fiddling with the lock and curses. Bloodied shirt held against the wound to keep it from dripping on his carpet, he races for the door, determined to hold it shut. But he's not quick enough. Before he even makes it halfway across the room, the door swings open and he freezes, eyes wide like the proverbial deer caught in headlights.

Even with the light off, Bones zeroes in on him at once, her expression angry. "Booth, I don't know what's going on with you. Why did you run, and where have you been? I—"

She stops abruptly, her eyes wide as she takes in his appearance and the blood. "You're hurt!"

He steps back as she steps forward. "I'm fine."

"You're bleeding," she states flatly.

"It's just a scratch," he bluffs, but she gives him a scathing look and he remembers that there's no way he can fool a scientist like her. One look at him and she can probably tell exactly between which ribs the cut is located and how to treat it. So he just stands there, bare-chested and bleeding, unsure of what to do next.

In the end, she moves first. After a brief moment of hesitation, she crosses the room to him, pulls the bloodied shirt away, and examines the wound. Her breath hisses out between her teeth as she tells her father tersely, "Turn the lights on."

Max obeys, and Booth says weakly, "It isn't as bad as it looks."

"You've lost a lot of blood," she says pointedly, eyeing his soaked shirt. And then, her voice almost hurt, she adds, "You told me you weren't hurt."

Damn, is she good at laying the guilt on him or what? Uncomfortably, he answers, "No broken bones or anything. And this was almost healed."

"It's recent," she retorts. "A few days at best." Her fingers probe the wound, and he hisses in pain. She doesn't look repentant at all, and he figures he deserves it. Maybe.

"Hey, Max," he says, to break the awkward silence. "Sorry about…uh, that." He gestures to Max's face, where a bruise is forming across his cheek.

Max grins and shrugs. "Sorry about that too." He points to Booth's face.

He must have a bruise forming across his jaw where Max hit him. He winces a little but tries not to move under Bones's ministrations.

"Bandages?" she asks in a clipped tone, rising.

"Uh, in the bathroom," he answers meekly, pointing. She disappears and returns quickly, the roll of gauze in her hands. Expertly, she disinfects the wound and presses gauze over it, finishing with the easy efficiency he knows is part of her nature.

"Thanks," he mutters, suddenly uncomfortable with being bare-chested in front of her. God knows why; he never was before. Maybe because he knows she'll see the other scar on his stomach and little scratches here and there he didn't tell her about.

"Let me get a shirt," he says lowly, ducking into his bedroom. Once there, he takes a deep breath in the darkness. Bones is out there, in his living room. He knows that she'll demand answers because it's part of who she is. She's always searching for answers, and when she finds a question, a curiosity, she doesn't let it go until she's satisfied. She won't leave until she's gotten to the bottom of his problem.

Oh, he knows what's wrong with him. He just doesn't want _her_ to know.

There's a window to his left, one that leads to the fire escape. It would be easy, almost too easy, to open the window and duck out. He could leave, get himself under control, and then come back to explain. She'll be angry, sure, but she'll be safe. From him.

But he can't do it. No matter how easy it is, he just can't run. Seeley Booth is so many things, but he isn't a coward. He's never been one, and he isn't going to start.

So he finds a shirt somewhere in his dresser and slips it on before opening his bedroom door and returning. To his surprise, it's only Bones in the room.

"I told him I wanted to talk to you alone," she explains, seeing the question in his eyes.

He winces at her voice—scientific and neutral. She's angry at him.

With a quiet sigh, he pads over to his couch and sits down. She moves to take a seat next to him, the space between them like a gaping canyon. Neither of them make eye contact.

"So," she says eventually, staring resolutely at the coffee table, "tell me the truth."

"The truth?" he repeats.

"Were you hurt?" she asks pointedly.

Oh. That truth. He shakes his head. "Not badly. I mean, they're just scratches. They'll heal."

She looks at him, and he knows she sees past the physical scars. For once, she can see underneath all that, all the way to his heart. He can see the understanding in her eyes, and he wishes she didn't understand.

"But you're not okay," she says softly.

He stares straight ahead. "I'm fine."

"No, you're not." Her voice tells him that she's well-aware that he's anything but fine.

He sighs. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, I do."

Anger coils up in his gut, and he clenches his fist. Can't she tell he doesn't want to talk because he wants to protect her? Can't she tell it _hurts_ to talk about it?

"I don't want to talk about it," he repeats stoically. "Let it go, Bones."

"Booth," she says, like she's stating scientific facts, "you assaulted my father. You nearly killed him. And then you didn't even stay to help, you ran off. I may not be astute in reading people, but your actions made it very clear that something is wrong with you." Her voice softens. "I want to help you, Booth."

He sighs. Once, twice. Rubs his eyes tiredly and tries not to freeze her out.

"It's…hard," he says quietly. "To talk about it."

"You trained soldiers," Bones points out. "You didn't see any action."

He doesn't have the heart to correct her, to tell her that in a warzone, your commanding officer can send you wherever the hell he wants and there's not a damn thing you can do about it. Instead, he just says, "You see things, Bones. Even if you're not out doing the heavy-lifting, you see things in war." He shudders, thinking about it. "Things no one should ever have to see."

She scoots a little closer to him. "Things like what?" she asks softly.

He shakes his head. "I'm not telling you, Bones. I mean it. I'm not telling anyone what I saw over there. It's just…" He takes a deep breath. "I just need some time to adjust, okay?"

"Is it posttraumatic stress disorder?"

He barks a laugh. "PTSD? Yeah, I guess it is. It might be. I don't know." But he does. He does know.

"You might not have it," Bones replies matter-of-factly. "If the symptoms are present for over thirty days, then you can be diagnosed with it. Otherwise, it's only acute stress disorder. It isn't as severe. You'll adjust, Booth, I know you will."

He doesn't tell her that it's happened before, when he left the army the first time, and that he suffered nightmares for months. He doesn't tell her that that was the reason for his uncontrollable gambling.

He doesn't tell her that the five years he spent with her were the first peaceful years he'd had since leaving the army.

He just shrugs. "I guess so."

She doesn't look convinced. "I think you should get help though. Although I doubt Doctor Sweets' capabilities, I have to admit that he'd be best trained to deal with this."

He laughed. "Sweets? No way am I talking to him about anything." He doesn't tell her he's already thought of contacting the psychologist. He doesn't want her to know that it's gotten that bad.

"Or perhaps Doctor Wyatt would be better," Bones suggests. "Although he's a psychologist, I admire his intelligence. He thinks very logically for a person in his field."

"Chef Wyatt," he reminds her with a half-smile.

"You're a friend," Bones returns. "He'd make time."

Maybe. He hasn't thought of Gordon Gordon Wyatt. He doesn't know where the former psychologist has gotten to. He just wants the nightmares to stop.

With a sigh, he shakes his head. "It's getting late, Bones. You should head home and get some sleep."

She doesn't move. "You should get that cut looked at."

He looks at her in amusement. "You did look at it."

"I'm not a professional medical doctor," she replies. "I bandaged it, but it would be better if you got a doctor to look at the stitches again."

He nods. "Okay, sure. I'll get it looked at first thing." He rises as a way to prompt her into leaving. Not that he wants her to leave, but it _is_ getting late, and if she stays any longer, Max, who's probably waiting in the hallway with his ear pressed to the door, will probably break the door open thinking Booth's doing something inappropriate with his daughter. As if he doesn't have enough trouble on his plate.

She doesn't get the hint. Either that or she chooses to purposely ignore it. The glint in her eye as she remains seated convinces him it's the second option.

"It's late," he tries. "Maybe you should head home. I don't want you to go wrap your car around a pole because it's dark."

"That's a physical impossibility," she replies easily, "given that the top speed of my car is nowhere near the velocity required to wrap a car around a pole."

"It's an expression, Bones," he says, chuckling despite himself. He's missed her literalness and her nonexistent understanding of figurative language.

She still doesn't move, but a sudden, almost shy look crosses her face. He starts in surprise at the uncertainty in her expression. Since when has _Bones_ been uncertain about _anything?_

But she doesn't say anything. He stands next to her in uncomfortable silence, wondering what she's thinking. It must be something big to make her look even _almost_ shy. It can't be that she's about to suggest ending their friendship? His heart thuds heavily against his chest. Maybe his outburst against her father scared her more than she let on. Maybe she's frightened of him now. Maybe she's about to say that it might be better for them to stay away from each other, at least until he's better.

He swallows. Life without Bones? Life without talking to her or seeing her? Can he do it? He doesn't think he can take it. But _will_ he do it? If she wants him to, will he?

There's no question about it. If she feels safer with him halfway across the States in California, he'll do it. For her.

She opens her mouth, and he steels himself.

"I've been thinking, Booth."

He swallows again. "About what?"

"About…about that night."

Can she _get_ any more vague? He glances at her. "What night?"

She hesitates again, staring at her hands. He bites back words, sensing that it wouldn't be wise to push her now. Something's going on with her, and he wants to know what.

Eventually, she takes a breath. "Do you remember me telling you I liked someone?"

"How could I forget?" he asks, wondering where she's going with this.

"Well…that night…"

Oh God. Oh God no. She's _not_ going there. He does _not_ want to stand there in his living room listening to her detail her sex life with a some guy he doesn't know but is intensely jealous of.

She speaks before he can manage a word. "Well, things have changed."

Things have changed? Things have _changed?_ Like _what?_ His mind makes the leap from _guy Bones likes_ to _that night_ to _changed. _

"Don't tell me you're pregnant," he bursts out, unable to contain himself.

She gives him a deadpan look, and he can't tell for the life of him if that's supposed to be a no or a yes. _Tell me she's not pregnant,_ he groans inwardly. _I can't take this._

She levels another look on him, and this one he recognizes. It's the 'I am seriously doubting his intelligence as a sentient creature' look.

"No," she answers. "I'm not pregnant."

He sighs in quiet relief. Not that he'd really though she was, but there's always that possibility…

"So what is it then?" he asks, wondering what has her so serious.

"That night," she clarifies, "after Sweets' session with us. The one where he showed us his completed book?"

Oh. That night. The one he wants to, and can't, forget. The night where he gave her his heart to hold and she practically threw it back in his face because she was scared. Because she thought she couldn't _change._

Well, to be fair, he'd been pretty damn terrified too, but it still hadn't lessened the abject hurt he'd felt. He'd thought—he'd been so _sure _she'd at least _try._ For him. For the possibility of them.

"That night," he repeats, hoping she can't hear the hurt in his voice. He turns to hide his expression, knowing if she sees his reaction, she'll know that he hasn't gotten over her—not even close.

"I had a lot of time to think in Maluku, at night and between dig days," she explains. "I thought a lot about what you said and what I said."

_Which part?_ he wants to ask. The part where he poured his heart out to her? The part where she rejected him? Or the part where he told her he'd move on? But now that she's actually talking about it, he doesn't dare interrupt her.

"You told me you'd move on," she says, her voice almost…small. "Did you?"

Did he? No, he hasn't. He won't ever move on. It's like he's stuck, and he doesn't mind being stuck, as long as she'd be stuck with him. But she won't, so it's torture.

_I still love you. _

The words are on the tip of his tongue before he bites them back. He doesn't want to spook her like his first confession had. He doesn't want the night to end in tears and bittersweet compromise like it had the first time he'd told her how he felt.

Anyway, what will it matter if he tells her? She's infatuated with her own man now. He won't get between that.

"You have," she guesses softly.

He doesn't bother to correct her. "So have you," he says instead.

She smiles, and there's an ironic edge to it. What's the irony in this? It isn't funny at all, at least to him. With that smile, she stands and holds something out to him.

His coat, the one he'd given her outside the Jeffersonian. He takes it slowly, confused. Is she…is she leaving?

Apparently yes. She moves toward the door and says, "You're right. It's getting late. Good night, Booth."

Promptly, politely, completely dismissing him. Somehow it makes him angry.

"You didn't say what you wanted to," he calls to her. "I know you didn't."

"It doesn't matter," she says, her back to him. "I forgot what I was going to say. Good night, Booth."

Any other time, he might have let it go. Any other time, he might have remembered that it was useless to push Bones unless she was ready to talk. But tonight, he's been shaken by his flashback, and he's not thinking straight. He figures he's got a good chance of slamming down her walls.

He reaches forward to grab her arm. "Like hell, Bones. We both know you didn't forget anything. Tell me."

She turns to him, eyes wide, like she can't believe he just growled at her. He can't believe it either, but he isn't backing off.

"Let me go, Booth," she says calmly. "I don't want to talk about anything. I'm tired and jet lagged. I just want to go home and sleep."

He doesn't move. "Bones, you wanted to help me. Now I want to help you. It's a two-way street."

"Nothing's a street," she replies, puzzled. And then, before he can answer in exasperation, she adds, "That was an expression, wasn't it?"

So the last year _has_ taught her a little something here and there. He can't help but smile. "Yeah, Bones, it was." After a moment of silence, he asks, "So will you tell me what's on your mind?"

"Layers of skin, blood vessels, and skull," she replies solemnly. Before he can beat his head against the wall in frustration, she adds, "But I assume you want to know what I'm thinking about?"

"Exactly," he says, glad she's guessing the meaning behind his words without him having to stop and explain it to her.

To his satisfaction, she turns around to face him and crosses her arms. What she asks, though, isn't what he expects.

"Tell me about her," she says.

"Her?" he repeats in surprise. "Who?"

"The woman you like," she answers. "I asked you in the mall if you were dating anyone, and you said you weren't. However, earlier, you said you'd moved on, so I assume you just haven't said anything to a woman that you like."

"I didn't say I'd moved on," he protests, even though he knows he shouldn't. He should let her just assume the worst, so she can get on with her love life guilt-free.

"Your silence implied it," she states stoically. "So tell me about her."

He wants to lie to her. He wants to make up some magical woman on the spot so that Bones can be free to date this lucky bastard that she likes. He wants to do the right thing for her. But he discovers right then and there that he isn't as selfless of a man as he thought he was. In fact, he's downright selfish. He wants to do what's right for _him_.

He closes his eyes and licks his lips. "Listen, Bones, remember how I told you I'd have to find someone to love me thirty, forty, fifty years from now?"

"Of course I remember." And is it his imagination or is that a flicker of…longing in her voice?

He shakes his head slightly. He must be imagining it. Instead of wondering on it, he continues, "I had a lot of time to think in Afghanistan too. You know, between the training exercises and—" He cuts himself off before he lets slip that he'd been in combat too. "And the other stuff. I thought about what you said, about you not changing. And it's a lie, Bones. You change all the time. You've changed so much I'd hardly recognize you if it was the me from six years back when we first started this partnership. And you're _still_ changing. So that isn't the problem, Bones."

He wonders why the hell he brought that up when he's supposed to be assuring her that he's moved on. He hadn't meant to say any of that.

She catches his confusion and says hesitantly, "I…I know that, Booth."

He pauses in surprise. "You know that?"

She nods. "I told you I'd been thinking, and I decided that my reason for turning you down was invalid. A person is constantly changing in height, weight, and physical needs."

He groans aloud, wondering just how dense she is and just how big of a sledgehammer he needs to knock some sense into her. "That isn't what I've been getting at, Bones."

She manages a small smile. "I know, Booth. That was just an example. I decided that people also change—_grow_—mentally too. It's an evolutionary fact that things that don't change with the times become extinct." She pauses. "You remember that I went to Maluku to study a missing link in the evolutionary chain of human beings?"

"Yeah," he says uncertainly, wondering what she's getting at.

"Well, I made some conclusions there. Just as different species must change to adapt to situations, so must emotions and mindsets."

A spark of hope flares to life. He wants to but can't stamp it out. Not yet. He swallows. "And?"

"And I think this is a situation that requires some adapting to," she answers promptly. "Which means that it also requires change."

"Which you said you couldn't," Booth reminds her. _Or wouldn't._ Even now, he isn't sure which she meant. But he wants to push her hard enough to find out.

"I might have…revised my position on that," she says, not meeting his eyes.

Now what the hell does _that_ mean? She's figured out she can change? Great. Swell. He knew that about three years ago. But what if…what if…?

What if it's _more?_

He doesn't dare allow himself to hope because she'll disappoint him and it'll all crash down around his ears, and he'll be the one left hurting. But what if…?

"I've come to the conclusion that I _am_ capable of change," Bones says matter-of-factly, like she doesn't know just how hard that hits him. And she probably doesn't.

He finds his heart suddenly pounding double time against his ribs. Does she realize the implications of what she's said? Does she realize that, by saying that she can change, she's removed the only obstacle between separateness and togetherness?

Does she know how breathless hope has made him?

She stops, faintly embarrassed. "But you don't care about this. You've moved on."

He can't hold it in anymore. "I haven't, Bones," he bursts out. "I haven't moved on. I told myself, I _promised_ myself, to get over you like I told you I would. I spent a year in Afghanistan trying to convince myself that I didn't love you anymore. But it doesn't work that way, Bones. You don't just _stop_ being in love, it's not something you can turn on and off like a switch." He sighs and runs an agitated hand through his hair, avoiding her gaze. "Well, Bones, I'm just gonna tell you the plain and honest truth here, okay? I don't think there _is_ a getting over you. I don't think I ever will."

Silence. Pure shocked silence. He hopes it's not a bad kind of shocked, the kind that sends her flying out his door, never to return. He also hopes, belatedly, that Max hasn't been eavesdropping and isn't about to reduce the door to splinters before shooting him full of holes. He can't imagine what Max has done to any other man who's propositioned his daughter, and he hopes he doesn't have to find out.

Her silence continues on for so long that he's afraid she's somehow pulled a Houdini and left while he's been staring resolutely at the wall. Nervously, he sneaks a glance over to her, half-expecting to find that she's disappeared. What he sees makes him openly stare.

She's smiling. Miracle beyond miracles, not only is she accepting what he's said without buying an immediate one-way plane ticket out of D.C., she's actually, genuinely _smiling._

He gapes at her. He can't help it. This is so far from the reaction he was expecting that he can only stare.

She laughs at his expression. "What?"

"What?" he splutters. "What do you mean _what?_ You aren't mad at me?"

Her brow furrows in confusion. "Mad? Why would I be mad at you?"

"I thought you'd be mad at me for lying about moving on," he stammers, confused. This is so far from the usual Bones reaction that he's completely thrown.

"But you never said that," she reasons.

"But my silence implied it," he argues, repeating what she said a few minutes earlier. He's confused as hell as to how they've reversed their positions.

"Now that I have more facts," she answers logically, "I can draw a different conclusion from your silence."

"Oh." She's so logical he can't argue. Besides, he's glad she's not mad at him. He won't push the point. But he _is_ wondering why the hell she's smiling like that.

Well, he decides just to come right out with it. "So why are you smiling like that?"

"Like what?" she asks. He doesn't answer because he knows she's being deliberately obtuse. She's thinking now, he can see it. After another moment, she asks, "You still…feel the same way about me?"

He still…

God, what can he do to convince her that he loves her and that he'll always, always love her?

Despite everything, he can't say it. Can't say those three words that'll tell her everything. It's too forward, and he knows she'll get spooked if he tells her. So instead, he says slowly, "Bones, listen to me. I'm still that same man who stood on those steps and told you that you were the one. I'm still that guy who gambled for you."

What he wants to know now—desperately wants to know—is if she's the same woman who turned him down. He wants to know if…maybe…he decides to gamble again, will he win this time?

"The man I like," she starts slowly.

The man she likes. Damn it. _Damn it._ He's completely forgotten about him. What the hell, what the hell, Bones? Did she think it was funny to toy with him like that? Did she think it was amusing or good entertainment or somehow a good scientific experiment? He can't stop the anger from making him clench his fists and turn away from her.

"Booth?" she falters, sounding uncertain.

"I don't want to hear about this guy you like," he says, more brusquely than he intended. He's tired, too tired, of being jealous.

"Let me finish," she pleads.

It's the plaintive edge to her voice that gets him. She doesn't know it, but there's nothing he'll deny her if she asks in that tone.

He sighs, and she takes it as an initiative to continue.

"Booth, I told you I'd been thinking about personal issues during the year at Maluku. I did. I thought about it a lot. And I decided that I'd been wrong."

His heart leaps inside of him. He can't speak.

"I was wrong that night. I _can_ change. I _want_ to change. It's a biological imperative."

He doesn't want to hear about biological crap. He just wants to know if she _will_ change—if her _decision_ will change.

She hesitates. "You said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome. But I've decided that, as illogical as it sounds, I don't mind a little insanity. A little insanity might be good for me."

He doesn't turn to look at her. He doesn't think he'll be able to keep those three little words in if he does. "What do you mean?" he whispers.

"What I mean is, I want us to try," she says, a determined edge to her voice. "I want to try a relationship, Booth, with you."

He realizes something with a start. The guy she likes—it's him. _He's_ the lucky bastard. He wheels around to stare at her in shock.

She grins at the expression on his face, but there's an undercurrent of nervousness to it. Like she's having second thoughts.

She's having second thoughts? Not on _his_ watch, she isn't.

He tries to say _I love you._ He tries to say those three little words that carry a whole world of meaning behind them, but he knows that even with that world, they will never be enough. Nothing will ever be enough to tell her how much he loves her.

He figures he'll just have to show her. He steps in quickly and kisses her like he's always wanted to and it's better than he ever imagined. It's better than that one time under the mistletoe, and it's better than the one on those steps. He isn't under duress this time (albeit, willing duress), and he isn't terrified about destroying the best partnership he's ever had. He's exploding with joy, with the knowledge that his gamble of a year ago has finally, finally paid off.

He's got Bones. He's finally got her. He thinks about all the problems he's brought home from Afghanistan, and he can honestly say to hell with nightmares and to hell with PTSD. Who the hell cares? If she's with him, he can take anything. He'll take a little crazy and flashbacks. He'll take Bones's 'I don't know what that means' and her infuriating quest to denounce chivalry as chauvinistic and alpha male tendencies. He'll take it all, and he'll love every second of it.

It's the first night in months he sleeps without troubles. When he wakes up, Bones in his arms, he knows everything's going to be alright.

He's home.

* * *

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